Second Front (Kirov Series Book 24) Read online

  “Elevation?” He said nonchalantly to his Elevatorman, Pavel Kornalev.

  “Passing through 2000 meters. Ballast secure and releasing on schedule. Engines one and three running smoothly.”

  “Very well, climb to 3000 meters. Ahead two thirds on engines two and four. Up elevator five degrees. We’ll take it nice and easy—God knows we have plenty of time out here. Helmsman, come to zero-four-five degrees northeast. We’ll cruise on over to the Biryusa River and then make our next turn.”

  That was the routine, 045 Degrees northeast to the Mirnyy Nob, a sharp bend in the Biryusa River near that village. Then they would just turn north, follow the course of the river up to the Big Bend, and the village of Biryusa itself. They’d then make a turn to port on 330, taking a short cut across the taiga until they saw the river again. This time it would lead them due west, until it made a sharp turn to the north. At that point, they would be about 130 kilometers north of Kansk, completing the first half of their patrol. From there, they would steer 225 southwest until they hit the much bigger Yenisei River, and follow that south until it split. They would take the smaller left fork, a tributary called the Kan River, and that would lead them right to Kansk, with Ilanskiy just a few minutes to the east.

  It was just routine now—too much so. Doesn’t Karpov know that Volkov still has men on the ground out here? Yes, we never could account for all the men he airlifted in here in those raids. Most were killed or captured, but I’ll bet my left thumb that some made it clean away into the Taiga. I wouldn’t like their lot, trying to survive out there, and live off the land, particularly in winter. But summer can be even worse. The permafrost melts in places, and the bogs make overland travel damn near impossible. Yes, the bogs, bugs, bears and tigers—Siberia is no place for a man to live with any comfort.

  So his morning began that way, finding those rivers, drifting along their winding courses, seeing the sun gleaming on the water, stark in contrast to the green of the forest and taiga below. It wasn’t until they reached the Big Bend in the Biryusa that things got interesting. The buzzer on the bridge gondola sounded noisily, and the Captain looked over his shoulder to see which station was calling. He thought it might be engineering, something with that gimpy tail that had been damaged in that battle with Volkov’s ships. It had been repaired, but was never quite the same as far as he was concerned. He had been an officer on this ship earlier, and now he got the promotion to Captain, his first real command, and he had taken to noticing things like that—any odd quiver or vibration in the rigging of his airship. It was his now, all his.

  “Forward Radar Station,” he muttered aloud. “Now what’s this about?” He went over to the intercom, punched the button and spoke. ‘Bridge. This is the Captain.”

  “Aye sir, we have a contact to report—just came on the screen, sir. Single contact, bearing 350 true north of our position, range 80 kilometers. Working on elevation now.” He was not reading from an Oko panel, as they were too few to deploy on a small cruiser like Angara. This was just the modified RUS-2 radar set that Karpov had designated Topaz, with a maximum range of about 110 kilometers for airborne surveillance. It was not really very accurate, and the operator was using a combination of the reading received, his own experience, and a good deal of guessing. Yet one thing was certain. Something was out there.

  “Speed?” asked the Captain

  “Reading now sir. I have it fairly low and slow. About 3500 meters, maybe 80KPH.”

  That did not sound good, thought Putchkin. It was much too slow for a plane, and what would a plane be doing out there in any case. No. It was another airship, and any sighting of that sort could mean only one thing, trouble. “Very well, Elevatorman, up bubble 15 degrees and take us to 4000 meters immediately. We have unexpected company. The ship will come to action stations.” He leaned to a voice pipe up to the main body officer’s station. “Mister Suslov, to the bridge. Action stations!”

  Then the captain walked through an open hatch to his radio room. “Signal Kansk. We have an unidentified contact to our north at 80 kilometers. Use a chart. Ask if we have any traffic up there I might not know of.” He strode away, unhappy. Cruiser Captains were always the last to know anything—Topaz Men—that was what they were called in the fleet. The dreadnoughts all had that fancy new radar set, the Oko system. What a wonder that was. It could see an airship out to 200 kilometers, smaller planes at 150, and it could track them unerringly, up to 40 separate contacts. A Topaz set could detect, but it would not track accurately. But that reminded him.

  “Radioman, also put in a signal to Kansk. Tell them they had better get Sevastopol off the tower and up to 4000 meters.”

  It looked like breakfast was over back there, and they had better get the girls down the tower ladder and be quick about it. Trouble at 3500 meters means you get your ass to 4000 meters. They climb, and you clime right with them, always to maintain that minimum 500 meter edge. Stretch it to a thousand for good measure, but he’d wait until they climbed through this leg, and then see what the contact did in response.

  Damn, he thought. Haven’t we kicked Volkov hard enough out here? What’s he doing here now, testing our readiness with a single airship out making a probe? What kind of airship? How big would this one be? We kicked his ass roundly the last time we fought. That Karpov is one lethal son-of-a-bitch when he gets to war, and that’s no brag. He’s well west now, some 800 kilometers west at Novosibirsk on the Ob Rover line position. That has to be it—the Ob River line battle. Volkov has been pushing there again, building up men and equipment for the last month. He’s going to mount another offensive there, sure as rain, and so that’s where Karpov is with the dreadnoughts. So in that light, this traffic up north makes sense now, doesn’t it? Somebody is edging in for a look around.

  He strode back onto the main bridge, ringing up the radar post in the nose of the ship. “Radar—anything more?”

  “Contact still at 3500 meters, range about 70 kilometers now.”

  “Very well, keep me informed.”

  Five minutes, 10 kilometers off the range. We’re closing on one another at 160KPH combined speed. So that means we might get a visual on this one in under half an hour. Has he seen us? Does Volkov have radar sets too? If he has, he’s not moved a muscle to climb. Cheeky bastard, this one. I’d better get forward to the observation section. Telescope time soon enough, and then after that, the rifles. But I hope to God this isn’t anything big. We’ve got elevation now, but that could change, and Angara isn’t a high climber. Yes, that could change very quickly.

  Putchkin sweated out the next 20 minutes, getting that feeling of adrenalin anxiety in his gut. He paced in the observation section, called up to radar every ten minutes, then settled in behind a telescope, waiting. Visibility was good, with just a scattering of white fluffy clouds. Then he saw it, a glint in the sky, right where he expected it beneath a cottony cloud, dead ahead.

  That’s an airship alright, and it looks to be a big one. But I’ll lose the damn thing in that cloud if he climbs. “Signalman,” he shouted over his shoulder to the radio room behind him. “Put out a challenge in the clear. Hail that bastard and demand identification.”

  “Aye sir.”

  He heard the man’s voice reading out the hail, the tension building with each moment. He didn’t expect anything would come back, but was shocked when he heard the crackle of another voice on the radio, inclining his head, one eye on the distant contact.

  “Siberian airship, heave too and surrender. Prepare to be boarded. This is Deutschland Luftshiff Fafnir, and you are hereby taken as a prize of war.”

  “What? To hell with that!” said Putchkin aloud. “Prize of war? Surrender, is it?” He slapped the telescope hard, stomped back through the radio room to the main gondola bridge, and looked for his first officer, Suslov. The man was leaning down to get a look at the contact from the bottom windows, but he saluted when the Captain came in.

  “What in god’s name is this doych land loof shit? Whe
re in god’s name is Fafnir?” Airships were always named for cities. Everybody knew that, but he had never heard of that place. Suslov just scratched his head.

  “It looks big, Captain. Perhaps we ought to climb.”

  “We’ve got damn near 700 meters elevation on them now, to my eye, and they’re turning, about 9 klicks out. No need to worry yet.” The Captain had a very good eye. His Radarman could not yet give him an accurate range, particularly this close, but his Mark One Eyeball was well experienced. They had turned, so he would turn as well, and maintain this cautious safe gap interval. Even a good 105mm recoilless rifle could only range out seven klicks on a good day like this. If I keep this interval, they can’t lay a finger on me—nor I them.

  “Radioman. Tell them this is the airship Angara, Siberian Aerocorps. And then tell them to go to hell. They are violating Free Siberian airspace, and if they do not immediately withdraw, they will be fired upon.”

  “Look at that thing,” said Suslov in a low voice. “My God, Captain, It’s a real monster. Big as Tunguska—bigger!”

  Putchkin had his field glasses up watching the contact skirt the edge of that cloud. If he climbs in there, then up we go, another 200 meters. We’ve got the ballast to drop, and Angara is very nimble. Yes, they can out climb us in the long run with those big fat airbags under that nice pretty canopy, but in the short run, we’re faster in a climb, and more maneuverable. I can dance up to the top of that cloud, sit there, and when they stick that big snout of theirs through the top, I’ll blast them to hell.

  It was a good plan, but he would not get the chance to carry it out. He heard a sharp crack in the distance, and then seconds late the sky near his ship erupted with a dark black rose of an exploding shell. It was just close enough to flay the main gondola with shrapnel, and he instinctively grabbed his balls. Fire from below had a way of making a man very uncomfortable, but the round was perhaps 500 meters short.

  Yet it shouldn’t have been that close at all, he thought with some alarm. What’s he got out there, some new 105 with better range? “Five points to starboard,” he said. “That was a little too close. Elevator man, ten degrees up and all ahead full. Take us up through 4500 meters.”

  He looked at Suslov now, astounded. “Well don’t just stand there gawking, Mister Suslov, “answer that goddamned round!”

  “But sir, we won’t hit them at this range, not even close.”

  “Answer it, by god. Use the 105 in the nose!”

  Suslov gave the order, and Angara cracked out a single round in reply, if only to say they were none too happy with what the other ship had done. There came an immediate reply, that hard distinctive crack, and then the hiss of a fast round coming at them, followed by the thump of canvas penetration, then a shuddering explosion.

  “Mother of God!” Putchkin shouted. “They put that one right into our guts. Damage control, report!” He was on the voice tube now, but he already knew they had lost a gas bag, the high, whining hiss of the helium leaking was the telltale sound to worry about. That was from a hole in a gas bag that was just too big for the vulcanized rubber lining to reseal. A machinegun hit, even up to a 20mm round would sound more like a man letting air spurt out from the end of a balloon, fart like, and then come to a sibilant hissing kissing sound as the wound resealed.

  God bless the Vulcan bag lining, but we just got hit with a bag buster, and a damn good one. The range has to be over ten klicks now.

  “Captain, we’re losing buoyancy. I can’t climb now with just the engines. We’ll have to drop ballast.”

  “Then piss it out man! Climb! Climb!”

  The Elevator man sounded the claxon, and pulled the emergency ballast drop lever. Water would cascade from the nose of the ship, lightening it there and helping to get the nose pointed up quickly.

  Crack, came another round, and another hit. By God, we’ve got to be twelve klicks away, well beyond rifle range. All they could possibly have up on top is a 105, but it’s one hell of a gun. They’ve blasted us again, we’ll lose another gas bag with that one.

  “Captain,” came a watchman. “Damage control says that hit the reserve Oxygen. We’ve got a fire!”

  Those were words that would freeze their blood of any airship Captain, no matter how salty he was. Fire was the last thing he ever wanted to see, for they carried limited amounts of water, due to its weight, and to fight a fire you had to be quick, and generous with whatever water they had. They would have to divert ballast water if this was serious, and something told him it was.

  “God-damnit!” he swore. “Radio man, put out a distress call. Note we’re under fire and taking damage. Request immediate support—our position. Sevastopol had better damn well be up at elevation by now. Tell them there’s a big fucker from Fafnir out here, wherever the hell that is.” He was still thinking the ship’s name was a city. “By God, that looks to be a German insignia there. Can you see that, Suslov?”

  Suslov leaned to peer through the lower gondola window panes again, squinting through his binoculars. Then the next round came right on through that window, and exploded.

  That little disagreement was going to send alarms all through the Siberian Aerocorps. Three more airships were pulled off the Ob River line, and moved to the scene, but when they arrived, the mysterious ship, Fafnir, was long gone, it’s mission accomplished… For the moment….

  * * *

  A month later, and 3500 miles to the west in London, Admiral Tovey was thinking over the situation in Russia, and with worrisome thoughts. Things were not good. The Soviets had stopped the Germans, even drove them back in their Winter Offensive, but it was high spring now, and the Germans were on the move again. The Soviets desperately needed supplies while they struggled to re-establish their factories on Siberian Territory. There was really only one way to get them there in quantity by sea, and it would now lead to one of the hardest fought convoy sagas of the war.

  “What’s next in the number sequence for Murmansk?” he asked a staffer when he reached the Admiralty.

  “Sir?” The young man looked at a clip board, flipping up a page. “Number 17, sir. Teeing up now at Reykjavik. Convoy PQ-17.”

  Part IV

  PQ-17

  “It's not because things are difficult that we dare not venture. It's because we dare not venture that they are difficult.”

  ― Seneca

  Chapter 10

  The convoys to Russia had begun with all optimism, in spite of the ever present threat from the German Navy, and in the beginning it seemed the effort would prove fruitful. With Ivan Volkov sitting in the Caucasus, and the Japanese controlling Vladivostok, there was only one way to Soviet Russia, the icy northern route to Murmansk and Arkhangelsk. From there, Allied supplies and equipment could move by rail down to Leningrad, the one major city in Russia that remained secure from enemy attack. By May of 1942, twelve convoys had been sent, and with the loss of only one of 103 merchant ships, largely because the heavy losses at sea had prompted Raeder to keep his remaining capital ships in port.

  Graf Spee and Graf Zeppelin were gone, along with Gneisenau. Hindenburg was at Gibraltar, and Bismarck laid up with extensive repair work at Toulon. In the north, that left only the Tirpitz as a threat powerful enough to challenge any Royal Navy ship it encountered, but that fact alone meant that each and every convoy to Murmansk had to be covered with a sizable force that would include at least one battleship and one carrier for air support. Admiral Dudley Pound lamented that the convoys were becoming a “regular millstone around our neck.” It was enough to have fast battleships available to watch the breakout zones to the Atlantic. Having to assign a battleship to convoy duty in the far north was indeed a regular added burden on the already strained resources of the Royal Navy.

  Commander P.Q. Edwards was a very busy man as he organized this effort, and the code names for the convoys would steal his initials, PQ. For the first six months, the principal threat to the convoys was mounted by the U-Boats operating from bases in Norway. That
long, ragged coast stretched the whole way along the eastern flank of the convoy route, and the U-boats would sortie like moray eels emerging from their dark hidden caves to strike at schools of slow moving merchant ships. Bombers at German controlled airfields also posed a grave threat, and in the late spring of 1942, the attacks began to ratchet up.

  Admiral Tovey remarked that if the Germans ever added a credible surface threat, they might easily overwhelm the effort to escort and guard these precious supply runs. Yet the convoys simply had to get through. Soviet Russia had barely survived the winter of 1941, and every sign now pointed to an impending German summer offensive that might knock the Soviets right out of the war, a disaster that had to be forestalled at any cost. Russia needed munitions, food, oil, and most of all trucks and aircraft. The Murmansk Run was the only way to get those vital supplies through, and so that millstone had to be carried, no matter what the cost, and the escorts had to be found.

  Tovey had been warned of one bloody choke point in the history that waited to be re-written—Convoy PQ-17. Fedorov had told him it had been savaged by the Germans, but as the numbered convoys were ticked off in the schedule, no German surface threat appeared. Then, spooked by faulty intelligence that the Allies were planning an invasion of Norway, Hitler ordered Raeder to strongly reinforce Norwegian ports and coastal defenses. With this order, the effort to build a strong bastion in the north for the Kriegsmarine was redoubled. Trondheim was selected as the best location, and the long planned naval air base there would suddenly be built out to a scale never seen in Fedorov’s history. It would be called ‘Nordstern,’ the North Star of the Reich, and so in May of 1942, Raeder ordered the cream of his surface ships in the north to sail from German ports for the cold waters of the north.